The Education of Margot Sanchez

by Lilliam Rivera

  “Great,” I mumble. Besides stocking condoms I will now be the social media serf.

  “Princesa, whether you like it or not, you’re spending the summer with me.” He lets go, grabs his fork, and points it at Mami. “Just be happy you’re not spending it with her.”

  She gives him a dirty look.

  “Que cómico! Very funny,” she says, and serves him another huge heap of baked ziti.

  “I can still go to the summer party, right?” This time I ask Mami because she understands how important the party is to me. It’s the only thing I have to look forward to. I pray they don’t take that little bit of fun from me.

  “Bueno, it depends.” Mami looks over to Papi. She wants to say yes but she can’t give me permission. Papi has the ultimate say.

  “If she does her job, then maybe she can go to the party,” he says. “Maybe. Me entiendes?”

  I’m stuck for ten weeks and there’s no guarantee that I’ll even be allowed to go to Nick’s party. It’s not right. I will have to figure out a way. I’m going to Nick’s even if I have to spend every hour shelving crap.

  Mami serves us carbonated water from a new machine she ordered online, explaining in tedious detail how the machine works and why her brand is better than the brand used by the neighbors.

  Papi and I act as if we’re listening to her.

  My phone vibrates. Serena sends me a pic of Camille by the pool. She’s sipping what looks like a frozen coffee drink. The text reads: U r missing out. Serena follows it with another picture of two guys hoisting Camille up in the air, ready to drop her in the water. Her mouth is frozen midscream; her legs are sprawled out.

  I text back with questions: Who r those guys? Where r u? When was this taken? Serena responds with, Don’t you wish you were here!?! I stare at the picture of Camille about to be thrown in the water and relish that seconds later she was a soaking-wet heap. I beg Serena to send me the “after” picture. It’s my only reprieve to hate on Camille when clearly they’re both having a blast without me.

  They r Camille’s cousins. They’re kinda hot. Right? Serena texts.

  They’re okay. Moises is better-looking but I don’t text Serena that. She doesn’t need to know what went down. No matter how much I pretty up the supermarket incident I’ll still end up sounding tragic. Instead, I give her a line of how wonderful my first day at work went.

  Aren’t you trying to get out of it? she responds.

  Most definitely. I will join you guys soon enough.

  I add a few happy faces to the text. I don’t want Serena and Camille to feel sorry for me. They’ve done that before, like when I mispronounced some long SAT word or when I made the mistake of saying I wanted to join the fashion club at school. “You don’t really want to do that, do you?” is what Camille said, her face confused. I told them I was only kidding. Serena and Camille aren’t fans of clubs.

  There’s a knock at the door. Mami answers it and seconds later Elizabeth walks into the dining room. I should be happy to see her. I should. It’s not like we had a blowout or anything but the truth is I still hold a tiny bit of a grudge from when she abandoned me at Somerset. Our friendship is not as intense as it used to be, especially when she made friends so quickly at her school and I was left flailing like a fish.

  “Dizzy Lizzy!” Papi teases. “How’s the family?”

  Elizabeth giggles although the joke is so played out. She dyed her hair blue, which doesn’t look right on her. Her clothes don’t make sense either. There are colors clashing with prints. Each fights for wardrobe domination. Nothing matches. Art school has changed her style just like Somerset changed mine.

  “Family’s good,” she says to Papi. Then to me: “Why haven’t you responded to my text? I thought you had a supermarket accident.” She leans over and peers at my phone. “Oh, you responded to those friends.”

  How funny. On my first day at Somerset Elizabeth didn’t answer any of my texts. There’s nothing worse than sitting by yourself in a cafeteria while everyone around you is paired up. The only thing I could do was send long, one-sided messages to Elizabeth so that I wouldn’t look like a complete loser. When we spoke later she was so excited about her cool new friends that she barely mentioned the messages I’d sent her.

  “Sorry, no time,” I say. “Training.”

  I put my phone away. Elizabeth has never met Serena and Camille. Whenever I mention them, she can’t hide her disapproval. She never says anything vicious, she’s not like that, but there are little things. A face. A raised eyebrow. When I told her I wanted to spend the summer in the Hamptons, she wasn’t happy. Elizabeth thought we would explore the city together. She wanted me to meet her new friends. You would love them, she said. I was too focused on reaching the Hamptons.

  She accepts a plate of food from Mami and sits in Junior’s empty seat.

  “We should hang out one day after work. There are a lot of things happening in the city. I mean, if Mr. Sanchez will give you a break from price-checking oranges.”

  Elizabeth is interning at an art museum this summer. Ever since third grade, she’s always been into art. She’s talented too.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I’m unloading boxes and according to him I’m on lockdown.”

  “You can’t always be stuck there,” she says. “C’mon, you owe me.”

  She will never let me forget. Elizabeth and I have a pact to watch every single Tom Braverman action movie on opening night, no matter how bad it is, and they are usually pretty bad. We’ve had huge crushes on him since we could have crushes on guys. That was our thing. Eat popcorn. Love Braverman. Last month, I broke the pact by seeing Braverman’s latest with Serena and Camille. Elizabeth was so upset.

  “What’s up with this?” I change the subject and tug at a blue strand.

  “There’s a painting in the museum that has this exact same color. I knew I had to rock it. People at work love it.” She shrugs. “You could stand to use some color in your hair.”

  Never. Camille and Serena are about highlights. And the hair has to be flat-ironed straight. I wake up every morning to deny my curls with a blowout. Anything else and I’ll stand out. Elizabeth is on some other trip and I can respect that. It’s just not what I’m doing.

  “Remember that time when you decided we needed bangs and I ended up looking insane?” She snorts, which makes her laugh more.

  “Yeah, that was not cute.”

  It was my idea. My love for girl groups was just beginning and I insisted we needed bangs and a tease-out. I cut Elizabeth’s hair but didn’t realize her bangs would curl up. She trusted me, which was probably her first mistake. I insisted on documenting it on our Instagram account, WEARABLE ART. Back then, I wasn’t afraid to look and act weird.

  “So funny,” Elizabeth says.

  I always used to take the lead and Elizabeth always went along with me. The blue hair is daring but not in a way that makes sense. What benefits does it have? I’m daring because it will get me somewhere. Now that I’m in with the right crowd at school I have to keep up. Blue hair will work with the artsy-fartsy crowd at the museum but not at Somerset.

  Elizabeth stays until she finishes her meal. When she leaves I text Serena to check in with her and Camille.

  Chapter 5

  Sweat trails down the back of my neck to the crevice of my butt. I look down and notice the deformed wheel on the shopping cart I’ve been fighting with for the past five minutes. It’s the end of week number one. Instead of having me do any kind of social media for the supermarket, Papi decided I first needed to herd carts out in the parking lot. I crave shelving instead of this tiny new hell. Cars honk at me to move out of the way. One woman complained how dirty the carts were and how I should use a disinfectant to wipe each of them down. “You don’t want to start an Ebola crisis, do you?” she asked. No, I do not want to start a deadly disease but I also don’t want to do this.

  I stop in the middle of the lot, pull out a hair band, and put my once-sleek do up in a lop
sided bun. This is the worst, and this ugly uniform jacket adds nothing to my situation.

  Before I faint Oscar thankfully comes out with a gallon of water.

  “Sit down and take a break!” he yells. I join him underneath the store’s awning. “How’s it going?”

  “I think I’m going to die,” I say. “It’s too hot to be out here.”

  “Did you know that these carts cost more than a hundred dollars each? It’s true,” Oscar says. “What you are doing is so important. It might seem trivial but it’s not.”

  A hundred dollars! Maybe I should bill Papi for each cart I collect. He can deduct it from the twenty-six hundred I owe.

  “We should upgrade to the automatic-lock carts but they cost too much,” Oscar says. He pulls a towel from his back pocket and wipes the perspiration accumulating on his bald head. “Sometimes it’s good to do work with your hands.” He pours me a large glass of water and I gulp it. “It’s humbling work. You are almost done.”

  He shows me his rough hands and we compare. My poor chipped nails. So not cute.

  A young white woman exits the store. She pushes a cart with groceries. There’s a college student vibe coming from her. Maybe she’s attending Fordham University. Still, it’s pretty far to be shopping over here if she’s going to that school. The woman leaves the shopping cart by me.

  “This neighborhood is changing,” Oscar says. “They can’t afford the city rents anymore. The Bronx is cheaper.”

  “That’s good,” I say. “Right?”

  “Sure. You would think. But you have to prepare for that change,” he says. “It’s good that you are here. Maybe you can help your father figure that out.”

  How can I possibly help? I’m in high school. I bet people at Somerset never have to deal with this kind of pressure. Papi does that to me all the time. Any dream I may have about my future is dictated by my family’s hopes. The burden falls on me to lift up the Sanchez family but how can I do that? I’ve never worked a day in my life until now.

  “I can’t even figure out how to align these carts together,” I say. “Besides, the store is doing well. It’s always busy.”

  “Oh yeah. We’re doing okay but they are building a new supermarket right by the other Sanchez location,” he says. “New buildings everywhere. Have you noticed?”

  Maybe Moises is right. New condos mean new supermarkets. Better ones. I’ve never thought of that before. Overheard Papi telling Junior to expect more visits to the Kingsbridge location, something about making sure that things are running smoothly. I guess Papi is worried about the new construction too. We stare at the college student as she walks toward the bus stop.

  I don’t say this to Oscar but I don’t want the responsibility. What do I know about hundred-dollar carts and this neighborhood? I just got here. I drink the rest of the water and go back to my cart-rescue mission. When I’m done, I take a detour to the break room to cool off.

  “You don’t know anything about anything,” Jasmine is saying to a cashierista. They’re supposed to be by their stations but I guess they’re on their break. I make myself an iced coffee and sit at the far end of the communal table.

  “Ese pendejo fucks everything that breathes,” Jasmine continues. “If you let him chat you up once, he’ll pull out his little wiener in five seconds flat. Trust.”

  The cashierista dabs her wet eyes with a crumpled tissue. Even before his name is mentioned, I know who they’re talking about. Junior. This is probably how this poor cashierista’s love life played out: Junior showed her some interest, personally “trained” her, then got bored and moved on to his next victim. From the looks of her, she fell hard.

  “I don’t want to talk with her here,” the cashierista says. She angrily dries her tears. I feel sorry for her for falling so quick on someone so not worth it. But I have my own problems to worry about. I won’t apologize on behalf of my brother.

  It’s nasty how much of a pig Junior is when it comes to the cashieristas. The other day two of them started arguing over their work schedule, accusing him of playing favorites. Papi had to put his foot down on that. One girl even tried to sidle up to me with lunch invites, trying to extract information from me like what my brother does on the weekends and with whom. I tried not to answer with specifics especially since I don’t know or want to know. Being his baby sister holds some weird power over them. They think I will magically crown them his new girlfriend.

  “You don’t have to worry about Princesa,” Jasmine says. “I bet she doesn’t even know half the shit her brother does here. Am I right?”

  That’s not entirely true. The more time I spend here the more Junior’s work life is revealed, and it’s not pretty. How he yells at the stock boys. How he tries to override Oscar’s ideas. How he’s a sucio to the girls. There’s another thing too. He’s kind of sloppy. Wrinkled shirts and all. What is he doing during those long weekends? When he comes home—if he comes home—he smells of smoke and alcohol. Mami continues to do his laundry and never mentions it. He’s a guy, old enough to do what he wants. I don’t have that luxury.

  “I don’t trust her,” the crying cashierista says as she gets up. Her chair scrapes the once-white linoleum floor and leaves a long dark mark.

  Jasmine shrugs, opens a compact mirror, and applies black eyeliner. Her tongue sits on the corner of her open mouth like an anchor to hold her head steady.

  “Why doesn’t she, um, tell my father what’s going on with Junior?” I ask. He basically sexually harasses this girl, or girls, and no one does a thing about it. They accept his deviant behavior simply because he’s the boss’s son. It’s not right.

  Jasmine applies blush that covers her cheekbones with a shimmering streak of pink. She doesn’t respond.

  “Well, then,” I say. “Maybe I’ll tell Papi.”

  Jasmine slowly places her compact down.

  “If you say one word to your father I’ll kick your ass,” she says. “She’s got a kid at home from her ex. She lives with her mom. She needs this job. Don’t fuck it up for her. In a week, she’ll be over Junior and his tiny dick.”

  With one cheek glittery pink and the other bare, Jasmine looks like a demented clown. I stare at my shoes because who wants to be threatened right before lunch? I can say whatever I want but what the hell do I know? This isn’t my world. The rules of engagement are unknown to me here. It’s as if I’m reliving that first day at Somerset when I walked around like a huge question mark unable to navigate other people’s intentions. Junior high was so easy. The school was near home so everyone knew each other. So what if Elizabeth and I were into shopping for vintage clothes and dressing up in retro looks? I never felt weird because Elizabeth was by my side.

  “Sit down,” Jasmine says. She lets out a sigh. This time she’s less ominous, more inviting. “Come. Sit by me.”

  I take my time and scoot over to where she is but I don’t sit right next to her. Can’t be sure when she’ll turn on me again.

  “Can you sing?” she asks after a long pause. I shake my head. “Too bad. I need a backup singer for my demo. I’m making a demo. Dance music. You didn’t know I could sing? I can and I write songs too.

  “This.” She flings her arms with exaggeration. “This shit right here is only temporary. You’re not the only one with moves.”

  I didn’t know I had moves. We both work in some run-down supermarket. Any money I make goes straight to Papi. So, no, I wouldn’t say I was making moves.

  “There’s this guy I met a couple of months back. Big Bobby G,” she continues. “He’s a legit producer and he’s going to produce my single. Watch. I’m going to blow up. Not everyone has to go to some fancy school to hit it big-time.”

  Does she know how many singers truly make it out there? I won’t burst her bubble. But who knows, maybe she’ll be a Boricua Beyoncé.

  “What do you want to do?” she asks, and I’m taken aback by the question. What do I want to do? Finish high school, of course. Get into the best Ivy League schoo
l out there. Unfortunately, my grades aren’t that amazing. I’m smart but there are others who are way smarter. Papi believes Somerset guarantees acceptance into any university but the competition is fierce.

  “I don’t know,” I answer. “I like social media stuff. Maybe marketing.”

  “Like Facebook and shit?” she asks.

  “No. I mean like a publicist. Never mind.”

  When Elizabeth’s parents converted their guest house into an art studio for her, she named it the Creative Collective. So official. Elizabeth believed we would somehow work together. I would be her manager/publicist, getting the word out to prestigious art galleries. I even made a list of galleries in New York and figured out how to write a press release. Elizabeth said Somerset would help our cause. I could make some cool connections.

  “You want to be a professional liar” is what Junior said when I told him about my silly marketing dreams. I have to aim higher. Lawyer. Doctor. Something that earns a seal of approval from Papi and Mami. A publicist? Camille’s mom hires publicists all the time. I might as well say I want to be a secretary, not that there’s anything wrong with that, but different goals have been placed in my life. My parents need a daughter with a job they can boast to people about.

  “You have to find what you love and do it,” Jasmine says. “Get it right, get it tight. Because these mocosos out here aren’t going to help you. You got to help yourself. You know what I’m saying?”

  At least Jasmine pursues her dream. When I tried to show initiative, I got shipped off to the supermarket. Papi and Mami are certain I’ll prove to everyone that the Sanchez stock is worth every penny they’ve spent on Somerset. Graduation means instant scholarship to a university. Yeah, right. Even if I do end up at a good school, what if I turn out like Junior and flunk out? What if it’s in my blood to sabotage my life? He can’t get his shit together no matter what type of guidance Papi gives him. His latest scheme is to convince Papi to invest in some bar in the Bronx. It’s sad how many times he’s been shut down.